So, yesterday, when I was asked to go to the customs area of the airport to pick up a donation for the Casa, I was primed for adventure. We didn't quite understand why it was that the Mexican customs office had contacted the Casa in order to give us items that didn't make it through with their original shipments (blankets, water, canned food, etc), but we were pumped at the prospect of having some new things and some things that we could give away. (The Casa, like many small non-profit organizations, has almost no money, so anything that people donate to us is much celebrated). My friend Bart and I were to meet a guy named Carlos at the intersection of two streets not far from the metro stop at the end of the red line. We were to bring an authorized letter saying that we were a legitimate non-profit with no intention of selling the goods once they were given to us.
Already the scenario seemed like something out of a movie, but little did we know at the time quite how much that would ring true. After several phone calls to work out the logistics of the meet-up, Carlos showed up at the intersection and immediately made an impression as a likable, fast-talking, chain-smoking Chilango, or person from Mexico City. He was probably in his early thirties, thin, medium-height, glasses-wearing, one button too many undone on his collared shirt. He flagged down a cab so that we could go together to the airport. As we zoomed along, perhaps slightly distracted by the stuffed monkey hanging on the dashboard and the cabbie's biker gloves, Carlos rambled in our ears about how these customs donations work. If a shipment for a company came in with 150 blankets when the paperwork only authorized for 100, then the surplus would be stopped in customs. He explained to us that it was better that all of these things that are held up in customs go to good use rather than be wasted, and that the customs officials chose to donate to foreign-run organizations over Mexican ones because they believe them to be more trustworthy. I was a little alarmed at the assumptions behind that statement, but my objections were lost in the wind as we blew towards the airport.
"Okay, so did we already go over the list with you guys? There'll be 10 boxes of bottled water, 15 boxes of milk, 100 blankets, 10 mattresses... Do you want the mattresses?"
"Yeah, we'll take them. On second thought, let's call Nico."
I reached for my new cellphone, my old phone having been tragically lost in the movie theatre a few days back, and searched for "Casa" on my contacts list. Orfila, my 80 year old Peruvian Grandma, picked up the phone and offered to look for Nico.
"Nico, do we want ten colchones?"
"Ten mattresses? Are they individual?"
I checked with Carlos. "Yes."
"Are they new?"
Double check. "Yes, new and package-wrapped."
"Sure, let's take them!" I hung up the phone, energized by my role as taxi liaison, and confirmed that we would take the new mattresses. This was perfect. We had been receiving complaints about some of the mattresses in the private rooms, and we could donate those that we didn't need to the Migrant House in Ecatepec. I started dreaming about the future possibilities of the Casa's connection to the customs office as Carlos told us that there were plenty of things that they needed to give away on a regular basis, including kilos of meat and other food. What luck that they had found us! Carlos said that he had studied at the University of the Valley, which happens to be located a neighborhood away from the Casa.
We finally arrived at the customs area behind the airport, a place that I knew all too well because of the time that my mother's Valentine's Day package was held up due to suspicious chocolates and hair dye. Carlos then told us that we could either rent a truck or use one of the ones at the customs' office in order to transport the goods, the customs' trucks being significantly cheaper. We agreed to pay 850 pesos as he made several calls to the "engineer" in charge of loading the truck. We handed over 1000 pesos, the equivalent of about $70 US, and he told us that he would be back in five minutes to organize the transport. Neither of us batted an eye as he practically sprinted off into the distance.
We settled into our seats on the curb under some shade, leaning up against the fence behind us. Five minutes turned into fifteen minutes turned into a half an hour, and we both were starting to get annoyed. Sure, Mexico has a very relaxed sense of time, but what could be taking this long? Were they still loading the truck? About an hour into the wait, I walked across the street to buy a cup of mango slices in order to combat my hunger. It was tianguis Saturday, the day of the Saturday market just blocks from our house, and all I wanted were some fresh tacos. Finally, we decided to call Carlos to see what was taking so long. No answer. We sent a text message. No answer. In the next half an hour, we called three more times, each time reaching his slick-sounding voicemail. We were both hot, desperate, hungry, and feeling like there was really nothing that we could do as we sat there like sitting ducks. Even at this point, we didn't really suspect that we could have been scammed. We both had been won over by Carlos' charisma and seeming professionalism.
After an hour and a half had passed, I decided to take some action. I trekked across the long covered walkway towards the customs area, having flashbacks to when I made that walk in order to battle it out with UPS over a Valentine's Day package held hostage. Bart stayed waiting at our spot with my cellphone in hand. When I reached the divide in the walkway with the armed guards, I asked them if either of them knew Carlos Mendez. They looked thoroughly confused as to what I was doing there, and one of them escorted me back to what appeared to be a shipment area. I talked to the person on the desk, and when we also had no idea who Carlos was, I explained the entire situation. He listened to my emotional Spanish and, as nicely as he could, let me know that this section of customs did not handle donations and that he had heard of this sort of hoax before. Scam artists contact humanitarian agencies (foreign-run agencies are especially targeted) and tell them that they want to donate to them, and as soon as they receive the payment for the truck, they disappear out the back entrance of the customs area.
I was in severe disbelief as I made the walk of shame back to Bart and told him that we'd had the wool pulled over our eyes. It had all happened so quickly, and as we looked back on it, there were signs that something was fishy but at the same time there was no way that we could have known. This guy was good. Very detail-oriented, very charismatic, very slick. I wondered if he had any capacity to feel guilt for preying on an organization like the Casa but quickly realized that he was probably laughing at the thought of us stranded on the side of the road with a 1,000 peso hole in our pocket. In a daze, we took a taxi to the nearest metro stop and started to make our way home, defeated and feeling like foolish gringos. I had heard of foreigners being duped many a time in Mexico, but this was my first direct taste of that sort of corruption.
Of course, after shuffling into our metro car, we realized that the train was undergoing a major malfunction. We stood there waiting for twenty minutes before it proceeded to the next stop. We were literally packed like sardines, the sweat was clouding the windows and my contact lens was irritating my right eye to no end. Forty-five minutes to an hour later, we arrived back at the Casa, slightly traumatized and physically spent. The tianguis had just closed, so I settled for taking a quick shower, changing my contacts for glasses, and dining on the average-t0-bad tacos that can be found on the corner. Thus, shell-shocked, I began work the third reception shift.
In order to handle all of the characters that the Casa has to offer, you have to be in the right mood. At this moment in time, the person who takes the cake for the quirkiest guest is a guy named Chauncey from Los Angeles. I would say he's in his late thirties to early forties, and he's in Mexico to get cheap dental work. He's got several missing teeth and is an intriguing mix between a country hick and intellectual. He can sure tell a good tale but not without using some of the most inventive, colorful language you can imagine. Anyway, there I was, begrudgingly working my reception shift and trapped behind the desk as Chauncey decided to linger and attempt to woo me.
"Hello, Chauncey."
"Hello, gorgeous. And I don't say that lightly. You are a damn attractive woman; has anyone every told you that before? If not, then you should stop hanging out with stupid people!"
Thus began a half and hour conversation in which he described to me a sci-fi/robot/mystery novel he had written entitled "Mercury Rising" and somehow secured my email address in order to send me excerpts from the book. Later I opened my email to this introductory poem:
Heather,
Beauty and grace
may not be the things
we worship now-a-days
but they are still traits
worth admiring...
I still do...
You possess them
in abundance.
Not a bad poem. But not exactly the person that I wanted to receive it from. It was a strange Saturday, indeed.
